


Days Like This

by Callum_q



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Child Abuse, Dark May, Dysphoria, Gen, Human AU, Hurt Peter Parker, Manipulation, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Physical Abuse, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Parker, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-06 23:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15896121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callum_q/pseuds/Callum_q
Summary: Days like this make me want to die, my only reason for not taking action is the certainty that I already am. Because on days like this, I am certain that I am dying.Peter is struggling to cope with who he is, and who he wants to be. While May...isn't really trying to cope at all.





	1. Days Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: Dysphoria, Panic attacks, and transphobia (slight mentions of blood).

_ The air around me is congealed, hot and humid. It suffocates me, captures me in an unforgiving haze, in which my fumbled movements and blurred vision do little to set me free. I clench my fists, dig my nails into my palms as I feel the skin on my knuckles crack with the tension, giving way to rivulets of blood that add to the stickiness of the air, filling it with a nauseating copper tone that makes my blue lips furl up into my nostrils to protect them from the onslaught. _

 

_ I remember the days when it wasn’t like this. When there was a warm breeze to ease the stagnicity and make my eyes water, the tears still able to obscure the harshness of the world around me. When there was cold, ice and snow, a bitter biting blast emanating from every open area, reaching my bare vulnerable body...when I used to complain about the simple things like that, unknowing of the future that would await--the long, slow days that give way for the heat to reach around my neck, sweat pouring from the fingers that leave behind bright red marks...and I can’t help but remember how yours felt. So soft in comparison, gentle, the caress that you left behind on my cheek, underneath my eyes, and I yearn for it. As the current fingers grow stronger, I wish and I wish that your gentle touch could somehow release me from death’s unyielding grip. _

  
  


I put my pen down, trying not succeedingly to break through to the metaphorical surface of my mind. To escape the dark swirling thoughts around me, but it’s hard. 

 

Days like this make me want to shave my head. Hide away from the world with a blanket over my face, wrapped deftly around me so that my body remains out of view--but it’s hot today, I cannot hide. 

 

Days like this force me to remember a time when my hair was long. Brown, curly locks that would cling to my bare back, tangling themselves into an uncomfortable weight that would settle around my chest posing as an awful reminder that I am not who I claim to be. And days like this make me feel disgusting for missing the long hair, longing for the time when hiding my face was easy, when I could allow my natural cocoon to take flight and I could pretend that I am the person everyone wants me to be.

 

Days like this make me want to die, my only reason for not taking action is the certainty that I already am. Because on days like this, I am certain that I am dying.

  
  


_ Fuck, no. _ My eyes dart wildly within their sockets as the panic builds.  _ Happy thoughts, _ I remind myself. 

_ Where am I?  _ I’m not sure.

_ What time is it?  _ It’s 11 pm. I take a deep breath. Cars are honking all around me. I see a red bicycle, a flowering tulip on the porch across the street, a puddle next to my hand. I smell garbage, it wafts from the dumpster beside me, I smell… I smell...I-I take a deep breath, start again, tears pool in the corners of my eyes. I feel my fingernails against my palm, I feel the blood dripping down, I smell the copper, my lips furl... _ no _ . Bad thoughts. I take a deep breath. I feel the cement underneath me. It’s cold. I feel my arm around my body, wrapping myself in a one armed hug. I feel the presence of an old man in the alley beside me. I think he is asleep. I take a deep breath, and another, and another...I sigh in relief.

 

“Damn, son,” I jolt. “You okay over there?” The old man is looking at me. He called me son.  _ Son.  _ I smile.

“Just fine, sir.”

“You don’t look all that fine,” he says, “in fact,” he observes me closer, “you look a little young to be out here by yourself, where are your parents?”

“Dead.” His eyes widen.

“Do you have any place to go?”

“Do you?”

The question sobers him, he stares at me calculatingly for a few moments before giving up, tugging his arms around to encircle his thin frame as he turns slightly on his side. “Suit yourself,” he mumbles.

 

I look down at the notebook I was writing in, fully aware of how much I miss her and fully aware of how much I hate myself for it.

 

I can still remember the last few days with her, when her touch became less gentle, her acrylic nails pinching almost as much as the sharp and incessant  _ “Karen” _ that would slip from her tongue.

  
  


_ “My name’s not Karen,” I said, throat clumpy and strained from holding back my scream.  _

_ “Karen,” she sighed, “you’re just unwell, you’ll see reason soon.” _

_ Shaking hands covered my ears, clawing my lobes and drawing blood. “Please,” I whispered, my eyes begging, “please, call me Peter.” _

_ She sneered. Her sharp nails plucked my hands away from the sides of my head as she bent down to be at eye level, brushing my bangs from my sweaty forehead. _

_ “But you’re name is Karen, sweetie.”  _

  
  


_ Screaming. So much screaming.  _

_ “What did you do?!” _

_ I held the scissors loosely in my right hand, mounds of my hair surrounded the floor around me. _

_ “Why would you do this?” She asked, her voice a now false calm that would sound forced to anyone except my innocent self. _

_ “Boys don’t have long hair.” _

_ She took a deep breath. “But, Karen, you’re not a boy, sweetheart.” _

_ I screamed this time. My cheeks flushed and tears streaming down. “I am a boy, I am a boy, I am a boy!” _

_ She looked steely at me, horrified and angry all the same and suddenly she stormed away, locking the door behind her. _

  
  


_ “I can’t do this anymore,” she said, rubbing her hands down her face as she read the note from my teacher. The note explaining that “I’m causing trouble,” “my teacher is at a loss,” “I keep writing Peter on all my school assignments.” She sighed once more. “I just don’t know what to do with you Karen, you’re parents gave me such a sweet girl to raise. I’m wondering where she went.” _

 

_ I don’t respond, because the truth is, I don’t know what to do either. _

 

_ She looked at me, tongue swirling in her mouth as she decides, eyes darting between the front door and myself. She placed a hand on my head. “You know I love you, right?” she whispered as her grip tightened, sliding down to the back of my neck and tugging the short locks at the base of my skull. “Well,” she said with a laugh, “I don’t love  _ you _ , I love Karen...and this isn’t Karen now is it?” _

_ I shook my head as tears gathered in my eyes, trying fruitlessly to swallow the wad of mucus at the back of my throat.  _

_ “And I didn’t let some random boy into my house, now did I?...No, I didn’t,” she said, this time using the harsh grip she had upon my hair to shake my head for me, emphasizing her own strong “no.”  _

_ “So,” she said, ushering me out the now open door, “I think it’s only fair that you leave...seeing as you’re not the person I wanted anyway.” She released me from her grip, bringing her hand to rest on the doorknob instead. “You are allowed back when you are ready to become my Karen again,” she said, slamming the door behind her, leaving me in the sweltering heat. Alone. Vulnerable to death’s grip as I felt it rise up, tapping three times on the Adam’s apple I lacked. _

  
  


_ Am I a boy? Or am I a girl? _ I shiver at the second question, my hand reaching up to cover my mouth. 

_ Does it even matter?  _ It definitely does.

_ Is it even worth it?  _ I’m not so sure anymore.

 

I stare at the apartment across the street, the one with the flowering tulip. Their TV is on and I can just make out the faces of two children in the soft blue light. One boy and one girl. They’re laughing at whatever they’re watching, bright smiles on their faces, and I can’t help but marvel in the jealousy I feel take root. Why can’t I be that happy? Why can’t I be that little boy, smiling and laughing in his air-conditioned living room? 

 

_ Is it even worth it? _

 

It’s been two days. Two measly days since she threw me out and I can’t even make it out here on my own. I’m already questioning myself.  _ I am a boy, goddamnit! _ I know I’m a boy.  _ Or do I? _ Or is my hunger riddled mind just supplying me with the easiest way to my next warm meal. To her gentle caress on my cheek, to her intricate fingers that would wipe the tears away.  _ Tears that she caused. _

 

I stand up, my body swaying back and forth as I put one foot in front of the other. 

 

Three more years and I’m eighteen. One more year and I can be emancipated. Just one more year. I can do this. 

 

I can play her game.

 

My vision blurs, spiraling with the heat waves, and all I can think is  _ I can’t fucking do this. I’m weak. _

 

_ Just a little girl. _

 

Her house stands before me, a fortress, the red door that reminds me way too much of blood mocks me. Locked and sturdy, it’s the only one that knows what lies behind it. I grimace, swallow, whole body shaking, I knock three times, the blood red color spreading to my knuckles, her voice, sickeningly sweet, it answers; “Who’s there?”

I take a deep breath, swallow, “K-Karen.”

  
  
  


That one word descends me into a panic and I hear the door open, it’s unforgiving creak. I feel the sun beating on the back of my neck. I feel her arms wrapping themselves around my throat, just like death’s grip. And maybe I was wrong...I-I-I feel, I feel her pull me inside. I see the pink walls. I smell the perfume, a girly lavender scent. I see black spots across my vision. I hear her rushed words, the incessant stream of “Karen.”  _ “Karen!” _

 

I feel scared.

 

I feel overwhelmed.

 

I-I feel…

 

I feel like a girl.


	2. Dresses and Binders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Dysphoria, Transphobia

_ You are my binder. Constricting and suffocating, yet I need you to survive, that somewhere along the line you have become more important than oxygen...than painless evenings, when I am finally alone, when the twinkling moonlight is my only company and I can take a sigh of relief, when my chest can expand freely and I can arch my back, roll my shoulders, when I look over and see my silhouette in the reflection of my window and know, that I will never be complete without you. Know that without you, I will never be me...however, the knowledge that you will never allow me to be me wrangles my mind as well.  _

 

_ That you are death’s grip upon my neck, stroking and strangling all the same, and I find myself disconcerted, left behind in the imbalance of it all. That you are the foster mother of a daughter. A loving stand-in. And I? I can no longer breathe because I am not your daughter...I am not anyone’s daughter. _

  
  
  


“Karen, sweetheart, I think it’s time we talked.”

I slam my notebook closed at her voice, my body instinctively curling inwards at the tone. “Mmmhmm,” I affirm, forcing a close lipped smile as I bob my head up and down anxiously.  _ Please don’t ask what I was doing, please don’t ask what I was doing. _

She sits on the bed next to me with a shake of her head, patting my covered legs. “I just want for us to be able to move on from the past week,” she says, “school’s starting soon--and don’t worry, I’ve already called them, told them what to watch out for.”

My head snaps up. “What to watch out for?”

“Karen, sweetie, you’re fifteen, no more of this make believe stuff...if we’re really going to move on from all this, I need to make sure you’re done with playing ‘Peter.’”

“And that involves calling the school?” I ask, wrapping my arms over my chest as I shoot her an incredulous look.

“Just covering my bases,” she says, with a warning glare that causes me to wither, “however,” she continues, “I was thinking we could go shopping today.”

I raise my eyebrow.

“You know, back to school shopping, we can get you some new books...clothes...it’ll be fun, relationship building.”

“That’s really not necessary--”

“Karen, I think I’m speaking for the both of us when I say I’m sorry about last week, but it’s done, over. Let me take you shopping.”

“I--”

“I’m not taking no for an answer, be ready to leave in twenty.” And with that, she was gone, leaving me to stare at the backside of my door dumbfounded like many times before.

 

_ She’s taking me clothes shopping. _

My eyes wander to my open closet, the few dresses I still own hanging up on the door; my boy clothes hidden within the drawers. It’s only a matter of time before she gets on me for not dressing girly enough, especially now that she knows, now that I’ve come back and told her that I’m  _ Karen _ . Now that she expects me to be  _ Karen _ ,  _ but what would Karen wear...what would Karen do? _

 

_ I’ve never been Karen. _

 

I grab a t-shirt and a pair of jeans to put on, my fingers fondling the fabric of my binder and I grab that as well, knowing that despite the risk I can’t bare to leave the house without it. Moving to the bathroom, I get dressed quickly, watching my naked body struggle into the constricting fabric out of the corner of my eye and I shudder at the sight, throwing my baggy t-shirt on to hide everything else from view and I squeeze my eyes shut as I change my pants; unable to even look. Once done, I take a deep breath, testing my limits, and I run my fingers through my hair, moving my head side to side and I grimace at the smooth, round, feminine features that stare back at me.

_ How can I even expect to pass with such a small nose? With such hairless cheeks?  _ I look prepubescent at best, female at worst, and I can’t help but think that I can have people refer to me as a boy all I want, but I will never truly be a man.

The tight chest says so, the baggy crotch says so, fucking  _ she  _ says so.

 

“Karen, are you ready?”

My stomach drops. “Uh, I’ll uh be right out.” I take a deep breath--as deep as I can--roll my shoulders back, listening for that satisfying crack, and I allow myself to open the bathroom door.

“Ugh, sweetheart, you see, this is what I was talking about,” she tsks, combing her spindly fingers through my hair, “we’ll get you some nice new clothes, allow this mess of a haircut to grow some, and you’ll be looking pretty again in no time.” She smiles at me, the  _ won’t that be nice _ unspoken, but very well heard. I want to scream.  _ Is this a test? _

I can only manage a nod in response, my throat so tight I don’t trust myself to speak. Her smile widens at my submissive behavior and her hand moves to leave three sharp pats between my shoulder blades; her signal to get me to move and I do, grabbing a jacket on our way out as an extra layer of security and catching the slight shake of her head as I do so.

“It’s ninety degrees outside, you’re going to have heat stroke.”

Sweat builds at my forehead and I know she’s right. It’s fucking hot. 

_ I can not hide. _

“I’ll be fine,” I say, already knowing that I’m not going to be fine, but she nods, believing me--or more likely just not caring--as we continue our trek to the bus stop. And I can’t help but remember the days when she did care. When gender was as simple as the clothes you wore and what colors you liked, when I was just a little kid and no one got mad at me for calling myself ‘Peter.’ 

 

When I was happy. Happy because she let me pick out my clothes for the first time and I was able to go to school in the dark blue  _ Star Wars _ shirt I loved so much. And the boys on the playground let me play with them because for the first time I was dressed like them, and together we mocked the girls in their frilly dresses because they couldn’t run as fast as us, and I was happy...so so happy. And Ned--my first ever friend--became the first ever person to call me ‘Peter.’ The first ever person to call me by my name. 

But then we went inside, and I got in trouble for not responding to  _ Karen _ . And she came to pick me up, and she dried my tears with those intricate fingers of hers, scraping the bottom of my eyelids with those sharp nails, and she told me that I was never allowed to pick out my own clothes again.

 

“Bus is here,” she says, pulling me by my jacket sleeve up the steps and towards two empty seats near the back. “We’ll get off in the next three stops,” she continues, “I was thinking we’d go to those big stores on Broadway? They have a lot of options, we could get you a nice dress for your first day, maybe a few pairs of nice fitting jeans...sound good, Karen?”

I nod dejectedly, watching as the woman sitting across from us stares confusedly--one of those generally godsend people who sees me as a boy, who’s now being notified that I’m clearly not. I slump down further in my seat, staring at the pinky toe that peeks out the side of my trainers. “Maybe we should buy me some new shoes too,” I whisper.

 

The bus ride to Broadway is unforgivably short and soon enough I find myself being dragged through racks of clothing, carrying an ever growing pile of her picks. Of bright pink, red, and purple dresses, the sleek silk slipping from my hold and causing my arm hairs to stand up with static, the lace so fucking itchy and I shudder with the knowledge that I’m going to be one of those mocked little girls in the frilly dresses who couldn’t run fast enough...or maybe my shudder is due to the realization that I already am.

 

“Well, that should do it, why don’t you go try these on?” she says, guiding me over to the fitting rooms as I struggle to count the items in my hands to tell the lady working.  _ Ten.  _ I tell the lady, she gives me a red plastic card with a bold black ten on it. 

_ Ten. Ten fucking dresses. _

“I’ll be right out here, let me know if you need any help,” and with that, she closes the fitting room door behind me; trapping me inside with those  _ ten fucking dresses. _ I sigh and glance at myself in the full body mirror in front of me, my short scrawny stature that only emphasizes my bulging chest; my face crumples. I reach for the pile of dresses, knowing that she’s waiting and I grab a red and blue t-shirt dress, hoping that it may offer me some coverage. However, the fact that it’s still a dress does little to soothe my mind and I am constantly reminded of that fact by the long suffocating tube that hangs limply off my shoulders, clinging uncomfortably to that bulging chest, my lack of a penis at the forefront of my mind with every cool breeze.

I open the door, allow her to see.

“Oh no, that won’t do, it does nothing for you! Try on the lace one next, that should fit you well.”

The lace one is a wine red, open back, much too nice for school. I put it on anyway, cringing as I feel it’s tightness encase my body, showing off every slight curve I wish I didn’t have and I move to open the door, my head down, and my arms wrapped tightly around my stomach despite the discomfort the lace causes and in that moment I know I have never wanted to die more.

“That’s the one,” she applauds, gushing as she reaches in to give me a hug that traps my arms further around myself and I clench the lacy fabric at my sides so as not to push her away. “Oh Karen, you just look so beautiful!”

I try to smile, but my face won’t cooperate.

“Go get changed,” she says, “no use trying on more when we’ve already found something.” 

I do smile this time, turning away from her faster than I ever have before with the promise of putting on pants when suddenly her hand grabs my shoulder, “What are you wearing?” she asks.

I give her a confused look, “What do you mean?”

“This,” she says, pulling at the binder on my back and I feel myself go still.

“It-it’s nothing, I-I’ll just go get changed,” I say, my face heating up as I bring my finger towards the direction of the fitting room; pointing towards my safety, and I realize that I was wrong,  _ this...this is the moment where I have never wanted to die more. _

She stares at me, registering my discomfort and I watch as her face begins to melt, “Karen, honey, why didn’t you tell me we need to go bra shopping?”

I gag. “N-no t-that’s really not...n-no.”

She sighs, “But, don’t you want to look pretty? I’m doing this for you.”

“No, you’re doing this for yourself,” I mutter, my head bowing even more until she roughly grabs my chin, forcing me to look up at her as her long nails pinch into the soft, hairless skin along my jawbone and she leans in once more except this time, definitely not for a hug.

“I’m doing this,” she whispers, voice hot against my ear, “so that I can learn to trust you again, so that you can show me you are deserving of a roof over your head and a full stomach, but if you can’t…”  She leaves that statement hanging, shoving me back into the fitting room. “Now go get changed, I’m sure there’s a Victoria’s Secret around here somewhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who can count the number of misplaced commas and semicolons? 
> 
> So this was intended to be longer, but I also felt this was a good place to end it...chapter updates will begin to slow down though as school starts in fourteen days (not like I'm counting) and as my own writing continues to trigger horrible memories (self-care who?)
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading, please feel free to leave a comment, I love to hear what people think of my work


	3. Bras and Backstories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: dysphoria, panic attacks, child abuse
> 
> ...basically just read the tags

_ You know when something is at the forefront of your mind and there’s nothing you can do but think of it, dwell on it--until the taste of it lingers.  _

 

_ Right now I taste sand, or at least I can’t help but think that this is what sand must taste like, drying my mouth, the granules hard to swallow, scraping my taste buds, and I close my eyes and long for the air that I’m breathing to suffocate me because I shouldn’t be getting this much air… _

  
  


I feel the hands on my body, wrapping themselves around my ribcage, right beneath the balloon of my chest and I shudder as the tape measure is pulled tighter. The lady yelling out a number.

  
  


_ Lately, I’ve been feeling this all encompassing sadness, this guilt ridden anxiety that I can’t seem to find the source of. But that doesn’t hide the fact that it’s there, and it’s strong...and I’m not. Because all I want to do is cry, but I can’t--years of suppressing emotions has led to this pathetic display in which my eyes water and my nose sniffles, but nothing actually happens--no cathartic experience, just this giant pit in my stomach that I don’t know what to do with. _

  
  


My face burns. The lady moves her tape measure to my shoulder. Up and around. She yells out another number.

  
  


_ I was seven when I had my first panic attack. It was a year after my parents died. One year that I’ve been living with her. I don’t remember much of it, only really know of it because she always holds it against me. Proof that I’m weak. Unstable. That I’m some pathetic child who freaked out because I was given a toy plane for my birthday. That it’s been a year since the plane crash, that it shouldn’t bother me anymore. That I asked for a boy toy, that I should be happy she did that for me. That I’m not a boy. That only weak little girls are scared of planes. That, now whenever I feel that panic rising, I make sure I am as far away from her as possible. _

 

_ That right now there is no escape. _

  
  


Fitting rooms are cells. Little rooms of solitary confinement in which you are left to find company in your reflection, a reflection that I already hate. 

  
  


_ In and out. In and out. I sit in the corner of my room, my hands grounding me as they lay flat on the plaster of each wall.  _

_ In and out. My chest spasms, uncooperating with my forced steady inhale exhale. I could hear her in the other room. She’s talking to her friends, they ask about me, she pretends I’m not here. _

_ In and out. I start to bang my hand on the wall it was laying on. Black spots cover my vision. I’m right here. _

_ In and out. They hear me. She says I’m out, they’re hearing sounds from another apartment. _

_ “Karen’s not here,” she says, unyielding, and she’s right.  _ Karen’s  _ not here...but I am. _

_ My hand claws the wall, creating gouges in the flimsy spackle as my vision fades away. _

  
  


My naked chest never ceases to astound me, a depressing astonishment in which I am forced to remember what I am trying to hide...as if I could ever forget. The hanging pale bulbs being the root of my dissatisfaction, a little over a handful large, heavy, always there. The bra she shoved in my hands before closing the fitting room door hangs on the wall. I can’t decide what’s worse; put it on, accentuate the one thing that truly mars the silhouette of a boy, or leave it off, my chest remaining bare...right there for me to see.

  
  


_ It took me about a year to control them...or more likely learn how to deal with them. Triggers are prevalent, unexpected. I find myself in the corner of my room more often than not attempting breathing exercises as my hands cling to my surroundings to ground me. _

_ I feel… _

_ I see… _

_ I hear… _

_ I smell... _

_ I breathe. _

 

_ It was a few months later when I discovered the things that sent me reeling all revolved around being referred to as a girl. That the only thing I could think of that’s worse than the memory of my parents’ death is the knowledge that I’m supposed to be  _ Karen _. And, hell, it took  _ me _ so long to figure that I was a boy, that how could I even expect for others to see me as such. _

  
  


The bra remains untouched, the thought of the sharp wire, the tight itchy fabric too all encompassing for me to make the moves to strap it on. I put my shirt on instead, grimacing as the cloth touches my distended nipple. I leave the fitting room, tell her that it fits. 

She smiles, her fist enclosed around my worn binder.

  
  


_ It’s funny...so fucking hysterical how as I begin to control the panic the depression settles in. It’s slight at first, this gnawing feeling that I’m always doing something wrong, this reminder of the bad memories. I don’t think of it much at first until it becomes more debilitating until there are days when I don’t leave my bed...when even the fear of her discovering me, my secret, my weakness, no longer mattered. _

_ When self preservation became unimportant in comparison to the corrupting sadness. _

 

_ That’s when everything went to shit. _

  
  


“I’ll talk to them about you wearing it home.”

“What?” 

“The bra...you sure as hell can’t wear nothing.” And with that she puts my binder in her purse, leaving me to stand there in the middle of the store, the points of my breasts disrupting the flow of my t-shirt.

And I stand there, feeling completely exposed.

  
  


_ Breathing is hard, but for the first time in a very long time, I feel happy. I stand in front of my mirror, a euphoric smile growing on my face as I stare at my binded chest. _

_ My flat chest. _

_ My finally flat chest. _

_ I’d cry if I could. _

 

_ Later that day I remember sitting in that corner of my room that I am way too familiar with. Unable to catch my breath because  _ she didn’t notice _. And, fuck, that should be a good thing, that means I can bind as much as I want, but that also means it doesn’t make difference. _

_ That I’ll always be a girl with breasts and it doesn’t make a fucking difference. _

_ And fuck. I breathe hard, my face turning bright red with the exertion, and in that moment I want nothing more than to be able to cry. _

  
  


The bra pinches my sides, somehow feeling more constricting than my binder. I zip my jacket all the way up to my neck, put my hood up as well. I might not be able to pass, but maybe I can just hide.

I look over and see her sitting next to me, chattering about what a good day we had together. 

Well, at least she’s happy.

  
  


_ Binding is something you have to work up to and even when you’re used to it, it’s not something you can do twenty-four hours of the day. _

_ I didn’t know that. I was just happy to finally have a flat chest. Even the dark purple bruises that littered my ribs didn’t deter me. And it was fine. I was fine. It was easy to pretend those bruises weren’t from my binder...especially as she began to get more physical. _

  
  


“Look at you,” she says, speaking to me once again now that we’re finally home. “You look amazing, just like a real girl.” She’s practically beaming now.

My stomach flips. “Am I ever going to get that back?” I ask, gesturing towards my binder that’s sticking out of her purse.

Her head whips towards me, eyes following the line my index finger creates and suddenly her beaming smile is gone.

  
  


_ The first time it happens I refuse to believe it.  _

_ I don’t even remember what I did, just her reaction. The shift in her features when she realized that her threats don’t have to be empty. When she could use more than words to hurt me. _

 

_ She told me I was a little shit. I felt the panic begin to rise and I remember asking myself what I felt. _

 

_ What do I feel? _

_ I feel her fingernails digging into my scalp as she pulls my hair. I feel her hand strike my face, hard enough to split my face. I feel the stinging remnants, the warmth that resides from the friction of her hand, from the swelling of my face. I feel her hot breath close to mine as she shoves me against the wall. I feel her knee drive itself into my stomach. _

 

_ What do I see? _

_ I see her angry face, her eyes clouded over with pure fury. I see her movements, yet I am unable to stop them. She’s speaking, I can see her mouth moving, but I can’t seem to hear anything anymore. _

 

_ What do I hear? _

_ I can’t hear. Just a ringing in my ears and the rush of blood in my pounding head from the lack of oxygen and I can’t fucking hear. _

 

_ What do I smell? _

_ Blood. I smell blood. I smell lavender from her perfume and she’s so close to me. _

 

_ She’s so close. _

 

_ And I can’t breathe. _

  
  


_ Later in the shower, I watch as clumps of hair swirl down the drain. A newly acquired bald spot on the top of my head, little crescent moon shaped scars surrounding it. _

  
  


“This?” she asks, ripping my binder out of her purse, “this...this...thing that feeds into your delusion of being a boy?” She looks at me hard, eyes boring into me. “You’re not getting this back,” she says, “not when I’ve just spent my hard earned money on you, not when I just bought you bras to wear, not when you’re my fucking little girl.” She screaming now and she reaches out to grab my arm, pulling me into kitchen. Her other arm grabbing a pair of scissors and she slices my binder in half before my eyes. Throwing the remains on the floor.

She tightens her grip on my arm. “You’re never getting this back.” And with that, she leaves, and I stand there, staring at the halves of my binder on the floor.

  
  


_ I swallow hard, the sand clogging my throat, scraping my esophagus, landing in the giant pit in my stomach. And I can’t help but think that if only I could fucking cry...that everything would be better. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this introspective shit, I'm not good at writing conflict and breaking it up allows me some reprieve as a writing (I promise the chapters won't continue to be like this)
> 
> Anyway, please comment! I love feedback and it truly helps at the times when I don't feel like writing
> 
> Thank you to those who did already comment, and thank you to all who are reading


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